


Baby steps

by gonattsaga



Category: Oz - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, M/M, Pre-Season 5, Sibling Incest (implied), UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-26
Updated: 2011-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 02:26:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonattsaga/pseuds/gonattsaga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan is coping... with life in Oz, with his role as a big brother and with the ghosts of past emotions haunting him at every turn, anger as his constant companion. Incestuous feelings implied only.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby steps

Anger is Ryan’s constant companion. It just sits there, in the pit of his stomach. Like a tight little ball of bright heat it fuels him and keeps him together, keeps him going when all he’d rather do is lie down on the ground and let go of the strings, let himself be smothered by his own web. The anger is a reminder, it’s a half-healed wound that throbs with pain and lets him know he’s still alive. But it can burn him too.

He’s got good at controlling it, though. Spending all his adult life with all the wrong crowds, and half the time before then as well, he’s learned to use his head rather than his fists, because for one, he’s a hell of a fighter but not very good and not very strong. Even before the accident, Cyril was the one with the muscles and he with the brains. Only now they’re walking talking parodies of the people they were then. _Which makes sense_ , Ryan figures, since this so called life, here in Oz, is just one big, never-ending joke.

That ball of bright white heat in his gut, the anger, the rage, that’s been with him all his life, or at least for as long as he can remember. It got a lot hotter the day Catherine died, and then hotter still when Cyril got his head smashed in. Most days he can control it just fine. But lately it’s been flaring up more than usual, and while it usually just motivates him and in some paradoxical way helps him cool down even more on the outside until he‘s just a plotting ice sculpture, whenever Cyril is involved, control is suddenly a foreign concept. If someone hurts his brother, or threatens to hurt his brother, or even looks at him in a way that could suggest they were thinking about joking about hurting his brother, that burning ball detonates like a fucking a-bomb and Ryan’s flooded with rage so scorching and so blindingly bright his vision goes black for a minute. It’s like having stared into the sun for too long, before you know it, you’ve burnt your retinas and all goes black, but you can still feel the heat on your face, because the sun’s still shining, you just can’t see it any more because you got too close to it, stupid little moth that you are.

And stupid is right, _stupid and reckless_ , because every time he attacks, and every time he puts Cyril at risk as he does. Because if the hacks throw his arse in the hole, Cyril will be on his own. Or Cyril could get it into his head to jump to his defence and get his own arse thrown into the hole, or solitary, or worse. It’s stupid and dangerous to lose his control, Ryan knows this, has always known this, has made it into a lifestyle to become a master of control because of this.

But nowadays, if he thinks his brother is in danger, all that knowledge is beautifully wiped from his brain, like selective amnesia, _like regression into primal instincts, baby. Stupid_. But most of all dangerous, and not just to himself, but to Cyril. Because he might not be as good a fighter as Cyril and he might not be the strongest, but he can hold his own. But how is Cyril supposed to learn to control his own rage when Ryan sets such a poor example?

Also, Cyril is always nearby, and always close, and if Ryan gets into a fight, he’ll get in too. If he senses that Ryan’s in danger, something in him snaps. And his punches were deadly even before the accident when he still knew how to pull them. Now, if he goes off, he’s off, and he’ll keep beating a guy’s face until there’s no face left, or until someone pulls him off. And one of these days, Ryan knows that his own lack of control is going to be the end of them both. In a way it’s already eating him up.

The lights come on and the buzzer sounds, signalling another morning and another day in this hell hole. Ryan yawns into his pillow and stretches a little, eyes squeezed shut, pushing the grit into the corners. Blinking, he peers out into the small space of the pod, watching the sink and the mirror slowly take shape through the foggy blur. In the mirror he can see his brother’s reflection, can see him burrow further down into his covers, clearly going back to sleep. Ryan sighs and heaves himself up to sitting and pushes his legs over the edge of the bed, lets them dangle a little for a moment.

“C’mon Cyril, time to get up”, he rasps out.

He rubs the remaining sleep from his eyes and tries not to think about how much he wants to follow his brothers example and crawl back into bed. Glancing out of the glass wall of the pod, Ryan catches sight of Murphy as he’s making his rounds, checking to make sure that the inmates are getting up and ready for count. Ryan jumps down from the bunk and leans in to shake Cyril’s shoulder. His brother groans, the sound muffled by the pillow he’s got his face buried in, but it sounds almost happy, dreamy. Ryan clenches his jaw and shakes him harder.

“Cyril, come on now!”

He rolls over then, onto his back, and starts rubbing sleep from one eye whilst peering up at Ryan with the other, all puffy, and he smiles. Still half-asleep, and he still finds it in him to give Ryan a real, genuine smile. Ryan tries to mirror it briefly, and he pats Cyril awkwardly on the chest before walking away to the sink.

“Don’t go back to sleep”, he says and grabs his toothbrush.

“Okay”, comes the answer.

Murphy reaches their pod and peers inside. He and Ryan exchange a glance, and pushing away the image of being a zoo animal, Ryan gives the hack a nod. Murphy nods back, then looks over at Cyril and frowns, clearly conflicted. Ryan glances over his reflection’s shoulder at Cyril, still awake, but still tucked into bed as well. Ryan spits toothpaste into the sink and exchanges another glance with Murphy.

“Cyril, come on, get up”, he says and turns around to face him.

Cyril immediately sits up, but not until he’s swung his legs over the edge and sits hunched over his knees, does Murphy decide to continue on his round, he exchanges another nod with Ryan, gaze dropping briefly, then quickly averts. Ryan watches him hurry over to the next pod and swallows his smile.

“Can I go back to bed now?” Cyril asks.

Ryan glances over at him again. The smile tugging a little more in the corners as he’s reminded of how easily he and everyone else underestimates Cyril sometimes. He turns back to the sink and spits again.

“No”, he says and turns back to the sink, rinsing the toothbrush and putting it back in the cup. He fills his cupped hands with some cold water and splashes onto his face.

“What about after count?” Cyril insists.

There’s a hint of a whine to his vowels, not enough to piss Ryan off, but enough to make him sound like a pathetic puppy dog. Ryan snorts and shakes his head. He turns back to face him and sees the complimenting puppy dog eyes firmly in place. He allows the smile to show, briefly, and shakes his head again, firmly.

“Sorry, little brother. You’re taking a shower before breakfast.”

“But why, Ryan? I showered yesterday!”

“Gotta shower every day, buddy.”

“But I haven’t been boxing or nothing yet, I’ve just been sleeping”, Cyril reasons.

There’s a wrinkle of genuine confusion between his eyebrows now. Ryan’s smile softens before he pushes it aside completely.

“I think you were boxing in your sleep”, he tells his brother, and watches as his eyes grow impossibly big and round, amazement coming off him in waves, nodding seriously as he breathes out an, “I was?”

“Sounded like. Were you dreaming about boxing?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Well, you’re always doing something or other that makes you all hot and sweaty when you sleep, which is why you gotta shower in the morning before breakfast, okay?”

Cyril readily accepts the explanation and nods.

“Come on”, Ryan says. “Teeth.”

They switch places. And as Cyril grabs his toothbrush, Ryan pulls on the pants he wore yesterday. He grabs the t-shirt he wore yesterday as well, but puts it to his face and inhales, and decides to get a fresh one. The dark blue, he decides, it’s got long sleeves and he’s feeling a little chilly. Plus it’s nice and soft after a couple of years of being well worn.

Cyril spits and turns the tap off. When Ryan glances up, his reflection is already watching him apprehensively.

“Come on, Cyril”, he says and pulls the shirt over his head.

“But I finished already.”

“All your teeth, Cyril-”

“I did!”

“Every single one, real good”, Ryan insists. “You know what’ll happen if you don’t. Remember what happened last time you didn’t brush your teeth properly? You remember? Shannon took you to the dentist and he wanted to drill a hole in one of your teeth?”

“But I did”, Cyril keeps insisting, but his heart’s no longer in it. “I just did it really quickly…”

“I know, little brother, but it was too quickly. Okay…?”

Cyril sighs and grabs his toothbrush again.

“Good guy”, Ryan says.

He grabs a fresh shirt for Cyril as well, and his towel and soap.

“You’re not showering, Ryan?” Cyril asks around his toothbrush, toothpaste trickling down his chin. Ryan turns away.

“Nah, I’ll do it later, after gym…”

“You didn’t dream you were boxing?”

 _I didn’t dream, period_ , Ryan thinks. It’s hard to dream when you barely sleep. But he doesn’t say that. He just says “Nope” like it’s no big deal, because if he can convince Cyril it’s not, maybe he’ll eventually start believing it himself.

As they’re walking to the showers a while later, Cyril keeps asking him what he did dream about, and since “Nothing” is an answer he rarely buys, thinking it’s a dismissal rather than the literal truth, Ryan tells him the one thing that will shut him up, at least for a couple of minutes.

“I dreamt I was sleeping.”

As Cyril wraps his mind around that, or tries to, Ryan goes to put his things down on the small wall and then walks over to the row of showers and turns one of them on, putting one hand under the spray to assess the temperature.

“Clothes off, Cyril”, he calls out to him.

Cyril is shaken out of his thoughts and nods distractedly as he starts pulling his pants off. Ryan glances at him over his shoulder, but doesn’t walk over to help until he gets his head stuck in the shirt and starts to panic.

“Ryan”, Cyril says at length as he gently steers him into the spray of water and hands him the soap.

“Yep.”

“When you were sleeping…”

“Yeah.”

“And you were dreaming about sleeping…”

“Uh-huh. You missed a spot…”

“Did you dream anything?”

“Here, want me to get your back?”

Cyril doesn’t answer, just lets Ryan grab the soap from him and turns around. As Ryan starts lathering him up and scrubs his hand over his back, Cyril repeats his question.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you dream anything in your dream?”

Ryan’s hand pauses between Cyril’s shoulder blades, and he looks down to hide another smile.

“Ryan?”

He moves his hand up to Cyril’s shoulder and gives him a gentle squeeze, then he starts scrubbing across his shoulder blades again.

“You know, I don’t remember”, he says. “Maybe I was dreaming that I was sleeping in my dream too?”

Cyril goes impossibly still as that idea settles. And for a moment it’s like having the old Cyril back, now that Ryan can’t see the childlike expression on his face and there’s no jittery energy fidgeting to give him away either. Just a strong-muscled back, broad shoulders, strong and composed. The old Cyril was always still, unless he was fighting, always the walking embodiment of the expression “the calm before the storm”, and that’s what made him so intimidating, and so cool. The leather jacket and the rocker hairdo, had nothing to do with it, those were more like quirks, indulgences of his, and they had nothing to do with what made him intimidating. And he was. He rarely had to raise his fists outside of the ring, he didn’t have to. His cool was enough to convince you that if he did, you were done for. And his stony face too. Unless you really knew him, unless you were Ryan, it reflected what a cold-blooded psycho he was.

“Ryan?”

Ryan shakes himself out of his reverie. When he realises that his hand has stopped moving again, and is just resting, just feeling the warm, wet skin of his brother’s back, he pulls it away as though burned suddenly, and cringes. Cyril turns back around to face him. But Ryan spins on his heel and goes to get him his towel.

“Ryan, you okay?”

“Yeah. Rinse off so we can go eat already.”

“But I haven’t done my hair”, Cyril says.

 _Fuck, I forgot the shampoo_ , Ryan thinks briefly.

“Just rinse off, Cyril”, he barks out.

:::

Cyril jumps a little, then takes a final spin in the spray of water before quickly turning it off, and Ryan feels bad, but he shakes it off and looks away as Cyril approaches. He holds out the towel for him. When Cyril takes it, Ryan feels some of the tension trickle out of his shoulders, but he doesn’t allow himself to reflect on it.

“We’ll do your hair after boxing practise, alright?” he says.

“Alright”, Cyril responds in his smallest voice.

He’s caught the change in his brother and he’d ask him if he’s done something bad to make him angry with him, but thinks it best to wait, because the stiffness in his arms and shoulders and the pinched expression on his face, those mean he can start yelling at any moment, so Cyril decides to let him cool down a little more before he asks anything. But he makes sure to towel himself thoroughly, all over, and he takes his time, until he’s completely dry all over, but for some reason Ryan keeps getting angrier and angrier, and it’s really confusing to Cyril.

“Cyril, come on”, Ryan finally snaps. “That’s enough, let’s go already!”

Cyril jumps again, but quickly puts the towel down and grabs his clothes. He hears Ryan sigh through the t-shirt, and then there are hands on him, helping, even though he doesn’t need help, doesn’t ever get stuck putting shirts on, just pulling them off, but he doesn’t remind Ryan of this, just lets him help, because he also know that somehow, Ryan helping him means that he’s sorry for yelling. When Cyril’s got both arms through the sleeves, and Ryan’s unbunched the hem around his belly, Cyril looks into his face, waiting for the eye contact and the smile, but it doesn’t come. Instead Ryan is focused on a spot below his chin. And then his hands are touching the front of Cyril’s neck, then gently moves to the sides, nestles in between his neck and his hair and pulls the hair out from inside the shirt. Then he looks up, meets Cyril’s gaze, as the hands linger on the outside of his shoulders, but it happens so quickly that Cyril barely has time to register it, and by the time he’s smiling, Ryan’s already turned away again.

He gets a second chance when Ryan looks over his shoulder to make sure he’s following, and then he gives him his biggest, happiest smile ever, silently begging Ryan not to be angry with him anymore. But something unhappy flickers by in Ryan’s eyes instead.

“Come on”, Ryan says then, and he is smiling, but his eyes are still unhappy, and Cyril is really confused.

As they walk out of the shower room, though, Ryan puts his arm around Cyril’s shoulders and glancing over, Cyril can’t detect any unhappiness anywhere in his face, so he’s almost entirely convinced that he’s happy again, and he starts thinking about breakfast instead.

“I hope there’s toast”, he tells Ryan.

“Yeah?” Ryan says. “That sounds good. I hope so, too.”

:::

It turns out they do get toast, but it’s not warm, so the butter won’t melt, which, Cyril informs him seriously, is the whole point, and Ryan can tell he’s trying real hard not to whine, which also tells him that he’s still wary of Ryan snapping at him. So when the last cellblock is lining up to get their food, Ryan grabs a couple of slices and goes to heat them up in a pan for Cyril.

“Hey there, Sweetcheeks”, Vern Schillinger’s voice reaches him, and then Cyril’s unsure “Ryan”. He snaps the stove off and pulls the pan to the side, then quickly moves back to Cyril’s side in line. Schillinger is mock-reassuring him to a chorus of snickers from his Aryan pals by the time he gets there, but even Cyril isn’t gullible enough to buy it and he only relaxes when Ryan puts a hand against his back.

“Move it along, Schillinger”, he growls.

“You know, O’Reily, if I’d have known I’d be stepping on your toes…”

“You-!”

“Ryan!” Cyril exclaims and grabs him, just as he’s about to lash out. The Aryans laugh and taunt him as they file away, Schillinger making comments about him being jealous.

“Shut up and sit the fuck down”, Chris Keller’s voice cuts through the ruckus from a table over.

Schillinger just gives Keller a look.

“Chris”, Tobias Beecher murmurs next to Keller.

And after another moment’s stubborn eye lock between him and Schillinger, he gives Beecher a sideway glance and hmphs gruffly, but relents to back off. Ryan gives him a nod of thanks as he glances over at him, then goes to grab Cyril’s toast from the pan and puts them on a tray along with some scrambled eggs and a bottle of juice. He hands it to Cyril and tells him to go join Keller and Beecher.

“I’ll be right there”, he murmurs and pats his brother once more on the back, hand lingering a little. Then he turns away.

He catches Pancamo’s eye and raises his eyebrows in question. Pancamo gives him a nod, and he grabs a tray for himself as well and moves over to the table where Cyril has joined the Oz Love birds. It makes him a little uncomfortable to be sitting with his back to the Aryans, but he tries to ignore it and presses close to his brother’s side.

“It makes you wonder, though”, Schillinger speaks up again, voice innocently conversational, but just a little too loud to not be meant for eavesdroppers.

Both Ryan and Keller tense up, and instinctively exchange a glance. Beecher and Cyril both tense up as well, and look between the two of them, wary of the sudden tension at the table more than anything.

“If it started before he turned into _Rain man_ , or if that’s what does it for him… I mean, either way it’s disgusting, but-”

Ryan’s not aware that he’s halfway out of his seat until Cyril’s hand is a comfortable weight on his arm and he’s gazing at him with a mixed look of fear and hope on his face. Ryan grits his teeth, but sinks back down in his seat.

“But hey”, Schillinger continues. “Whatever floats your boat… at least the tard‘s easy.”

“And tight”, one of the other Aryans add, the grin audible in the stretched out vowels.

“But still, your own brother, that’s just-”

“Come on, that’s enough!” Keller barks out.

“Do you mind, we’re having a private conversation over here…”

“Yeah, I do mind-!”

“Chris”, Beecher murmurs next to him.

“You sick fuck!” Keller continues.

“Chris!” Beecher hisses.

“I’m sick?” Schillinger scoffs. “That’s rich! I’m not the one lusting after my retarded brother-!”

Both Cyril and Beecher grab Ryan’s arms this time. He tears the one Beecher is holding free with a snarl and a glare that both say _“let the fuck go of me”_ , but he also sits back down for a second time, and he turns the hand Cyril’s holding over and interlaces their fingers together briefly, giving his brother’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

He feels Beecher’s gaze wash over him and lets go of Cyril’s hand again. He allows himself to gently stroke the back of his neck before he moves away completely, telling himself it‘s for Cyril‘s benefit and not his own. Cyril‘s hair is still a bit damp, and severely tousled.

 _That’s going to be a bitch to comb through later_ , he thinks.

He can feel both Keller’s and Beecher’s eyes on him now, but refuses to look up at them and stabs his eggs and shovels a couple of forkfuls into his mouth. They’re tasteless, like always. He chews mechanically.

“Ryan, what was that man talking about?”

“Nothing, Cyril. Eat your toast.”

“It’s black… and it tastes funny…”

“Then eat your eggs”, Ryan snaps.

Beecher saves him by starting a mundane conversation, and after a moment Keller joins in. Ryan looks up then, and he gives Beecher a grateful look, before pretending like nothing. He grabs the fried toast off of Cyril’s tray and replaces it with what’s left of his own scrambled eggs.

By the time breakfast is over, Cyril’s forgotten all about the weird behaviour of the others and actually believes everything is back to normal. Not for the first time, Ryan secretly envies his brother’s condition. He knows better, but sometimes, like now, he really wonders if Cyril’s doesn’t have the better deal after all. To be young and innocent again, to forget all the dark and horrible things from their past, to really live in the now, to be safe from demons.

 _What I wouldn’t give_ , Ryan thinks, _to trade in my demons for good old monsters under the bed._

“Alright Cyril”, he pants and puts the weights down. “What do you say we call it a day?”

Cyril keeps assaulting the punching bag as though he hasn’t heard him, though.

“Hey, Cyril”, Ryan calls out and gets to his feet.

“Okay, Ryan”, Cyril mumbles and stills.

Ryan wipes his face with his towel, then drapes it round his neck and walks over to Cyril and helps him out of his gloves.

“Let’s hit the showers”, he says and claps him on the back. “Good work today, buddy!”

Sometimes it breaks his heart a little when he’s reminded of the power he has to cause Cyril’s face to light up like this. No, not just his face, his entire body, practically sparkling, like a Christmas tree of happy, and just because Ryan’s told him he’s done something right.

“Can we watch ‘Miss Sally’?” Cyril asks on the way back from the gym.

“It’s not on for another hour, pal”, Ryan replies.

The pet name echoes back at him, taunting him, _pal, buddy, bud, bro_ … he tries to ignore them, tries to ignore his own inner voice, but it only chuckles back at him. Reminding him with a sing-song truth of a whole string of platonic labels, _safe labels, that he’s stuck on this relationship, and for what?_ The voice asks him. _Is there any doubt that you’re his brother? Has there ever been any doubts? What is there to prove? And to whom?_

“We can go see if someone wants to play cards”, he tells Cyril, even though he knows even Rebadow only has patience for one game with Cyril, two at the most, but anything to drown out his own brewing insanity. “Would you like that?”

They find Keller, Beecher and Busmalis already playing cards at one of the tables when they return from their pod. And Ryan pulls up two extra chairs for himself and Cyril, and glares at Keller when he rolls his eyes and lets out a breath of frustration. At least Beecher and Busmalis have the decency to stifle their sighs and plaster a couple of smiles onto their faces. Ryan smirks back, just as insincere. But Cyril beams at them, and that makes their smiles soften slightly. And then Beecher offers to start a new game and deal them in. Keller sighs again, and looks at the ceiling in disgust.

“Chris”, Beecher murmurs.

“Since when did my first name become a reprimand”, Keller mutters and tosses his cards across the table.

There’s a collective snort of stifled chuckles around the table at that. Keller bristles, scooting closer to Ryan, squinting dangerously at him, but before he has a chance to say anything, Beecher leans in and gives him a kiss on the cheek. Forgetting all about Ryan, Keller turn on him instead, eyes flashing dangerously, but Beecher just smiles. Suddenly a grin breaks out on Keller’s face, and Ryan shivers slightly, because there’s nothing sweet or happy about it. But Beecher doesn’t seem to realize that, because he just smiles wider in return. Then Keller is kissing Beecher in full force, full on the lips.

“Jesus Christ”, Ryan bitches.

But it’s just for show, because if he’s honest with himself, kissing Keller is better than killer Keller, although there’s a fine line between the two, and now he can breathe again.

“Break it up, you two!” a hack yells from across the quad.

“Yeah, yeah”, Keller yells back, still grinning.

Beecher is smirking now, and when his gaze flicker up to meet Ryan’s, he is once again reminded of just who is doing the manipulating in that relationship. And for a second crazy Beecher, his pal from the good old days just before the riot, is looking back at him. He smirks back. Then Beecher looks down and starts shuffling the cards.

“Is kissing bad?” Cyril asks him then, earnest as ever.

“Yeah”, Ryan tells him without even thinking about it.

Beecher’s eyes fly back up to his, that crazy glint sparking slightly, an eyebrow twitching. Ryan shrugs.

“It’s only bad if it feels bad when you’re doing it”, Beecher tells Cyril then, although his eyes never leave Ryan.

“Why would you do something that feels bad?” Cyril asks.

“Exactly”, Beecher says and smiles kindly at him.

Then his gaze is back on Ryan. Another twitch of that eyebrow. The glint in his eyes reminding Ryan of a maniacal laugh slithering through clouds of tear gas. Narrowing his own eyes, he licks his lips, soaking up the tension between them, tasting the challenge in-between Beecher’s words. Then he smiles back.

“Thanks for that…”

“Boys”, Keller says. “Don’t make me separate you. C’mon Tobe, deal the cards…”

“Can we play _‘Go Fish'_?” Cyril asks.

Keller chokes down another grunt and looks to the ceiling for strength, or patience, or something. Ryan secretly shares his frustration, but he won’t let it show. Because just as he has the power to make Cyril glow with all the happiness a human being can contain, he can stomp it out just as easily. _Well, easier_. And he’s not doing that over a stupid game of cards.

“No”, Keller barks. “We’re not playing _Go Fucking Fish_ again!”

Beecher just gives him a look and deals the cards. They play a couple of games, tell a few jokes, and wait for _Miss Sally_ to come on. All in all, it’s an entirely uneventful morning. But then again, in Oz, uneventful is a good thing.

“Go fucking fish”, Keller mutters.

“It’s just _‘Go fish’_ …” Cyril corrects him carefully.

Keller just glares at him, then slides down a little more in his seat.

“Cyril”, Ryan murmurs and nods towards the TV.

“Miss Sally!” Cyril exclaims and jumps up.

“Thank fucking Christ”, Keller says and throws his cards down.

Beecher and Busmalis do the same and follow Cyril over to the TV, but Ryan and Keller remain seated at the table. Ryan gathers up the deck and starts shuffling. He can feel Keller’s eyes on him and peers up through his lashes. Keller is watching him silently. Ryan can see the cogs in his head turning.

“You not watching ‘Miss Sally’, K-boy?”

Keller smirks, then shrugs. Eye lashes fluttering a little.

“What’s up?” Ryan asks then, in no mood for one of Keller’s mind games.

“Nothin’… how are ya?”

“How am I?” Ryan repeats incredulously.

“Yeah”, Keller says.

He seems to spread out even more in his seat, if that’s possible. Legs spilling all over the place, feet knocking against Ryan’s under the table. Smile widening, then another shrug. That glint in his eyes, more fluttering of lashes. _There’s that charm_ , Ryan thinks dully and shakes his head. _Guess it’s play time._

“What do you want, Keller?”

“I wanna help. I’m worried about you.”

“What makes you think I need help?”

Keller opens his mouth to reply, but Ryan holds up a hand to stop him.

“Let me guess”, he says. “A little birdie told you. And by _birdie_ , I mean _Beecher_. Am I right?”

Keller just grins.

“Beecher asked you to talk to me. _He’s_ worried about me. And since he thinks you and I are best buddies, and he wants you to be there for your friend, you’re putting on this little show right here just to convince your _girlfriend_ that you actually give a shit about someone other than yourself…”

Keller’s grin has faded through Ryan’s little speech, and he stares, stone-faced at him for a moment. Ryan tenses up a little, wondering if he’s taken things too far, and if Keller’s carrying a shank. But then Keller’s grinning again, and nods once.

“Yeah. Why not”, he says.

Ryan releases a breath that he, _wasn’t holding per se, just savouring_. And he kicks one of Keller’s feet gently.

“But”, Keller adds. “If you needed to talk, I’ve gotten pretty damn good at pretending to give a shit…”

“What would I possibly need to talk about? Gloria?”

“About what the Aryans were talking about at breakfast.”

Ryan stops shuffling, and carefully puts the card deck down on the table. There’s a slight hum inside his head, like muffled static. He feels light, like he‘s not really stuck to his own body any more, like he‘s floating away, and for a moment he has to spread his hands out on top of the table, to really feel them there, to anchor himself. His face is hot, but the rest of his body is cold. Keller is watching him apprehensively, and Ryan glares back.

Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet, he leans over the table to really get in the other man’s face, possible shank be damned, and he hisses, “Listen to me you crazy fuck-!”

“I ain’t trying to pick a fight, man”, Keller interrupts.

“Shut up”, Ryan snaps. “I ain’t a faggot like you and your sissier half-!”

“Leave him out of this”, Keller growls.

“Whatever-”

“Look! I’m not judging…”

“Just shut the fuck up!” Ryan yells.

Both him and Keller shrink back in their seats, glance around, wave to a hack, smile to another. _We’re good, it’s all good, bullshit bullshit._ Murphy catches his eye and frowns, and Ryan shakes his head slightly. _It’s nothing, don‘t worry about it. Fucking bullshit._

“Ryan?”

Cyril is sitting turned around in his chair, watching him with worried eyes. Beecher has put a protective hand on his shoulder, and Ryan is torn between gratitude and jealously.

“It’s alright, Cyril”, he calls back. “You watch your program.”

He and Keller play a few games of poker before lunch, and the other man doesn’t try and bring up the subject again.

Not until the next day.

“All I’m saying is that if there would have been something between your brother and you before he had that accident…-”

“Keller”, Ryan murmurs.

The warning is loud and clear in that one word, as the sound rolls out of him, dark and quivering, but Keller seems unaffected by it and keeps talking, and for a moment Ryan wonders how Beecher does it.

“I’m not judging either way, I’m just saying if… if, that were the case, then it’s perfectly understandable that you’d be, you know, conflicted now… I mean it’s a fucked up situation. ‘Cause he still looks the same…”

 _No, not the same. Not really, not at all_ , Ryan thinks. But he swallows that down. Tries not to remember that moment in the shower yesterday, that brief blast from the past, as painful as it was beautiful. But mostly painful. Especially when it ended, and reality squeezed him tight again.

“Right?”, Keller continues, oblivious. “Still has the same body-”

Ryan glares at him.

“And if that’s what turns you on-”

“Keller, I swear to God…”

“Look, it’s not about being a fag”, Keller sighs. “Trust me. I’ve fucked a lot, a lot, of people, men and women, plenty of whom I didn’t like very much, a few I even despised, and-”

Ryan catches sight of Beecher over Keller’s shoulder, walking towards them, but stopping in his tracks when Keller’s words reach him. Keller, noticing Ryan’s shift of focus, finally stops talking and twists around in his seat to see him too. Beecher smiles at him, but there’s not mirth to it. _Not even a crazy edge_ , Ryan notes to himself, _more like sadness or something_. Then he nods, as if to himself and turns on his heel.

“And when someone comes along who you love!” Keller shouts after him, but Beecher keeps walking away.

“Won’t be fucking anyone tonight”, Ryan observes.

“When you love someone”, Keller repeats and turns back around to face him. “Then that’s all that matters. And there’s no wrong in it.”

“Yeah”, Ryan says. “But what’s that got to do with me.”

_It’s a rhetorical question, K-boy._

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

“Nothing”, Ryan spits. “It’s got nothing to do with me. I’m in Oz. I’m in here for life. And I’m taking care of my little brother, who’s had his brains scrambled because of me, and yeah, I love him. He’s the only family I have. But if you’re suggesting that I’m fuck-”

Ryan cuts himself off. Looking at the table top, he takes a deep breath, waiting for the ball of heat to simmer back down, also willing down the emotions that are fighting each other for space in his throat, in his head, filling him up, choking, clouding. He feels like throwing up and he’s vaguely aware of his eyes watering, his nose running. He drags the back of his hand against it. Sniffing harshly.

“I’m not”, Keller says, voice softer than Ryan’s ever heard it.

“He’s five fucking years old again”, Ryan says, clears his throat to disguise that tremor.

“Yeah”, Keller agrees. “But he doesn’t look it.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I know… I know that. But I wouldn’t blame you if you sometimes forgot… and I don’t think you should blame yourself either… that’s all.”

Ryan keeps staring at the table top and he doesn’t speak again, doesn’t trust himself to, plus there’s really nothing else left to say. And not until Cyril shows up fifteen minutes later and whines about being hungry, does he look Keller in the eye again. He gives him a nod. And Keller nods back. If Ryan didn’t know better, he’d say that’s sympathy in the other man’s eyes. But since he does know better, he’s thinking it’s probably pity. But he’ll take it.

“Alright, buddy”, he says to Cyril. “Let’s go see about making dinner…”

“And I’ll go see about ensuring a good night’s sleep”, Keller mutters.

He gives them both a wave and saunters over to his and Beecher’s pod, completely carefree and cocky, as usual. Ryan watches him lean sideways in the doorway, watches Beecher’s body language prickle, then squirm, then relax. Then there’s eye contact. And smiles. And then Keller enters the pod, _forgiven_. Ryan shakes his head.

“Ry-aan”, Cyril whines next to him.

He puts his arm around his shoulders and steer him in the opposite direction and starts walking towards the cafeteria. They’re about half an hour early, but it’s not like Pancamo can complain about that.

“Ryan?”

“Yeah, Cyril?”

“You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“Hey”, Ryan murmurs.

He stops walking, but leaves his hand on top of Cyril’s shoulder, moves it to the back of his neck and squeezes gently. He ducks his head to scoop up his brother’s gaze with his own.

“Who loves ya?”

Cyril’s lips twitch.

“You do?”

“That’s right”, Ryan says, and he smiles, his biggest, his closest to sincere. “Don’t ever forget it, alright.”

“Alright…”

“Come here…”

Ryan pulls Cyril in for a hug. The familiar scent washes over him, the strong muscles and the warmth fill his arms, and he sighs. When it comes to his brother, control is suddenly a foreign concept. But he’s improving. Every day, it gets a little easier. _Baby steps. Sister Pete would be so proud._

“I love you too, Ryan”, Cyril says.

Ryan pulls away and claps him a couple of times on the back.

 _Baby steps_ , he tells himself.

 

The End


End file.
